


swallowed whole

by forbiddenarchives



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mentions of Cock Warming, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, but who is the dom and who is the sub?, just a whole lot of porn, mentions of rimming, porn with angst, questionable power dynamics, questionable uses of nautical imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forbiddenarchives/pseuds/forbiddenarchives
Summary: When Flint puts his mind to it, he has a way of making a man feel seen in a way few are capable of, reaching beyond the surface of flesh and skin and into the depths beneath. Bit by bit, he will coax into view the things that lurk there: the monsters at the bottom of the sea, the perilous beauty.(Or, on the eve of their hunt for theMaria Aleyne, Gates confronts Flint in his cabin.)
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Hal Gates
Comments: 15
Kudos: 24





	swallowed whole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iresolatio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iresolatio/gifts).



> This fic would not exist without Iresolatio sharing their headcanons with me and exchanging ideas, and then letting me steal bits and pieces to create my own little spin-off fic. Many thanks for your patience and your support over the past few months while this fic lay fallow. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> A big thank-you as well to Lupismaris for their beta-reading skills and for being such an excellent first reader!
> 
> Please note: this story is exploring a complicated, slightly darker relationship dynamic, which was very interesting to write but might not be everyone's cup of tea. Read at your own discretion.

_“There are no legacies in this life, are there?  
No monuments, no history, just the water.  
  
It pays us, and then it claims us, swallows us whole.”_

*

Gates doesn’t bother to knock when he arrives at the captain’s cabin. He barges in, flinging the door wide open. There’s a loud bang and a crunch of wood, and a slightly surprised glance from the captain himself as he looks up from the sea charts spread out all over the desk.

“What is it?” Flint asks. His tone is sharp, but not impatient, and decidedly unimpressed.

Over the years, Gates has learned his captain’s habits and become familiar with the ebb and flow of his moods. There are patterns to his actions and, like the sea, they can be studied, even if the results aren’t always reliable. Still surfaces can conceal hidden depths, reefs capable of shearing the sturdiest of hulls wide open, or a grisly undertow. He wouldn’t be the first man dragged out to sea, never to be seen again. Still, Gates knows this is one of the more promising moments. That’s why he chose it.

He shuts the door before he steps forward. The crew will try to listen in anyway, but he doesn’t have to make their work any easier for them. Walking around the captain’s desk, he helps himself to a cup of rum, pouring some for the captain as well.

“I strongly urge you to reconsider,” he says quietly, holding out the cup. “The _Maria Aleyne_ is heavily armed, and if our reports are anything to go by, her cargo is almost negligible in value.”

Flint holds himself very still as he listens, his expression unreadable. Then a muscle in his jaw clenches. He ignores the cup, and his voice is thin when he responds. “It’s not negligible to me.”

“That may be so,” Gates says, “but as quartermaster, I can’t support it.”

And it’s true, he can’t. He’s studied the vessel, but the men are exhausted and in no condition to go after her. There will be losses, and they won’t even bring in enough of a prize to offset the risks. These sort of missions are unlucky at best, doomed at worst, and not the sort of work they should be taking on in the first place—least of all without proper preparation. He pushes some of the charts aside, setting down the rum that Flint has refused.

“Perhaps if we resupply, go after her when she sails out again from the colonies,” he suggests.

Flint’s answer is quick and clipped. “That’s not an option. Tell the men to set course to pursue.”

He leans over the desk again, studying the charts. His dismissal is obvious.

Gates pushes his shoulders back and downs the last of his rum. “I said,” he repeats, “I won’t support it. The men won’t stand for it.”

“The men can’t always get what they want,” Flint says, light and uncaring, his eyes firmly on the charts.

He gets like this sometimes. Unreachable and cold. The men are nothing to him in these moments, and he is elsewhere, in a place where even Gates can’t reach him. He has no idea why Flint is so set on this particular prize, what it is that drives him.

“But you get what you want?” he asks, finally.

Flint looks up then, catching his eye. “I never get what I want.” His eyes trail over Gates. “Come here.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Gates steps closer, Flint’s gaze weighing heavily on him. When he stops he’s close enough to feel Flint’s breath ghosting over his face, and to smell the sea on him, the scent of cool determination.

Flint’s eyes bore through him. “I respect your position here, but you will not oppose me on this.”

He says it as if he knows exactly what the future is going to bring. He says it as if he could make it happen just by willing it. Gates feels pinned down by his gaze, stripped naked. When Flint puts his mind to it, he has a way of making a man feel seen in a way few are capable of, reaching beyond the surface of flesh and skin and into the depths beneath. Bit by bit, he will coax into view the things that lurk there: the monsters at the bottom of the sea, the perilous beauty. It makes Gates’ skin prickle, and he opens his mouth to protest.

At that precise moment, Flint sinks to his knees. His hands come to rest loosely on the tops of Gates’ thighs, and he looks up at him with that same unreadable expression. Then he reaches for the front of Hal’s breeches, pulling at the thick leather of his belt.

“Flint,” Gates says helplessly, his fingers twitching at his side.

A smile plays around the corner of his captain’s mouth, but in his eyes there is a sly glint. Gates has seen it before, sees it every time they secure a prize and the enemy crew surrenders. Flint unbuckles his belt with rough, fluid movements and tugs his breeches down. A small sound like a sigh escapes from his throat as he slides his hands over Gates’ hips. He hooks cool fingers into the fabric of his underclothes and pulls those down, too.

Flint’s gaze stills for a moment on the soft flesh between Gates’ legs before flicking back up to his eyes.

Gates clears his throat, but it is useless. The words won’t come out, not with Flint before him like this, looking up with his eyebrows raised and his thumbs digging into the creases of his hips. His lips are half parted, and his tongue dips out to wet them.

This is not the first time Flint has been on his knees for him. The first time, it happened shortly after they had met, and it took them both by surprise. They were drinking and idly chatting about the crew they were going to put together, reminiscing about the strong, steadfast men they had sailed with. Then, without either of them noticing at first, the conversation turned into a very different one altogether. Gates continued his tale of a younger man who possessed exemplary skill with a cutlass, able to turn his opponent into a quivering mess within minutes, and Flint, not to be outdone by some imagined rival, opened Gates’ breeches where he sat and started massaging his cock. That did not satisfy either of them for very long. By the time Gates had finished the story—now heartily embellished with plenty of narrative detours to draw out the pleasure of the telling—Flint was moaning around his cock like a common dockside slut, eyes glazed and cheeks flushed. And before Gates could begin his next tale, he was finishing as well, right into Flint’s wet and eager mouth.

There were other times after that, and as their friendship grew, they fell into an easy rhythm of mutual enjoyment. Flint relished Gates’ tales and shared plenty of his own as well. But when it came down to it, they both preferred him on his knees and with his mouth otherwise engaged. It was a beneficial arrangement for both of them, and as captain and quartermaster they could set aside a good deal of time to break up the tedious monotony of life at sea.

So now, when Flint kneels before him, Gates’ body knows to expect certain outcomes, even as his mind tries to resist them. His treacherous cock begins to fill and rise, the memory of Flint’s lips and tongue enough to set it off. He tries to banish the thought of Flint’s forehead pressed into his belly, his cock buried deep in Flint’s throat as he comes, shooting his release into tight, willing heat.

He swallows heavily. Flint is looking up at him through pale eyelashes while his thumbs rub soft circles into his thighs. His cheekbones catch the mid-afternoon light, making his eyes oscillate between sea-green and blue. He hasn’t even done anything. He just kneels in front of Gates, secure in the knowledge that his presence is promise enough, an offer unspoken and always unrescinded.

And Gates—Gates is a grown man. He could put a stop to this at any time. He knows this, and yet he doesn’t.

He never does.

“You can’t do this every time we have a disagreement,” he says, a desperate edge to his voice.

Flint smirks and says, “Can’t I?” and it’s so infuriating that Gates wants to shut up that clever mouth right then and there, find a better use for it: soft lips around his half-hard cock, sucking him obediently until he won’t fit anymore and Flint starts to drool around him.

Gates resists the urge, bending his knees with the rolling of the ship, but he can’t help the small forward sway of his hips. His head is spinning. Flint notices it, and his hand trails down from Gates’ hip and over his cock. Careful, calloused fingertips skim over sensitive skin. He wraps his hand around it and pushes the foreskin back, admiring the way the cock head appears and disappears, the sharp exhale wrung from Gates’ lungs as he does it again.

Still, Gates is only half-hard, and he’s angry with Flint, and he wants him at the same time, wants him so much he feels something small and vulnerable well up. Gates knows the day will come—one day the day will come and Flint will lose this power over him. Everything has to come to an end, and Gates will be able to assert himself, and then he will be free.

But that day hasn’t come just yet. His dick rises into Flint’s expert touch, Flint’s other hand cupping and rolling his balls, and then a drop of wetness appears at his slit. Flint works his cock so that it rolls down the tip, gathering at the bottom until it leaks right onto his waiting tongue. He laps it up with a tiny, electrifying brush of tongue against skin, then he sits back, swallows. He looks so self-satisfied that Gates’ anger begins to dissipate against his better judgment.

There’s more to it of course. It takes a special eye to see beyond the smugness of Flint’s expression to the hunger beneath: the way he doesn’t take his eyes off Gates’ cock for even a second, the way he suppresses a moan at his first taste. The way he licks his lips and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows against the spit flooding his mouth.

Gates knows that Flint needs this and that he is at his most vulnerable at this precise moment: when his mouth waters and when Gates can still refuse him, stuff his cock back into his trousers and humiliate him for wanting it. Otherwise Flint wouldn’t try to hide his hunger. He wouldn’t make such a show of working him up, mustering his best pirate bravado while trailing gentle fingertips along his length and caressing it with his eyes. If Flint wasn’t so vulnerable, for one small, fleeting moment, it would be so much easier to resist him.

This is one of the reasons why Gates stays, again and again.

He is fully hard now, pushing into the loose fist of Flint’s hand and slowly coming out of whatever trance he was in. His hands reach out to touch Flint’s hair. He traces over the ridge of his brow until Flint looks up at him.

“Please,” he whispers, because he can’t stand another moment without that mouth on him. He remembers another time when they were like this: a rare, clean-shaven Flint on his knees, the thick middle of his upper lip catching at the ridge of his cock and sucking his come out of him, a mouth so sensual it seemed to be made for fucking. Gates has no idea how or where Flint learned to need a cock in his mouth like this, but judging by the way it soothed him he was brought up to it somehow, and trained well to please.

Which is also why Gates doesn’t need to ask a second time. His own admission of want is all it takes. Flint is already leaning forward, nuzzling against his cock and looking up at him like some of Nassau’s best whores, working hard and with a hungry belly to fill. Offering his submission in a situation he controls completely, that’s what Flint does. Gates groans when Flint inhales deeply, taking in his scent. His tongue laps over the underside of his cock, working its way up, tasting and teasing and hinting at more.

Gates wants to ask again, plead if need be. But he holds himself back even as his hips twitch forward, suddenly shivering with desire. He’s become accustomed to this, dependent, really, on the way Flint will become greedy and wanton for his cock within the privacy of his cabin, and steely and inscrutable without, the stark difference in demeanor only he is privy to. He knows that if he plays his cards right, he can make Flint beg for it, finger himself open until Gates can press his cock into that dripping pink hole. But it’s rare they get to be undisturbed for long enough. So what they usually do is this, and Gates has made his peace with the fact that Flint mostly seems to want him in this way, sometimes bringing himself off after he’s sucked him to completion, but never before.

Then there are the times when Flint’s only wish is to sit at his feet and hold his soft dick in his mouth while Gates takes care of the accounting—Flint has fallen asleep like this more than once, after a rough day at sea, head pillowed against his thigh, startling awake when Gates’ dick slips out of him. Other times it hardens, and Flint will happily begin to suck him, at peace in a way few men will ever be, while Gates curses and messes up the books. Gates accepts this, too, in the way he does most of his captain’s whims, and he doesn’t ask questions. No man becomes a pirate that hasn’t had something happen to shape him into what he is now. In his experience even the most careful probing never leads anywhere good.

He touches Flint’s hair again, trailing his fingers down the side of his face and cupping his jaw while Flint tongues at his cock. This is always the moment when Flint closes his eyes and softens, this small gesture of affection. He’ll go quiet, turning inwards as the rest of the world falls away. From that point on, nothing else exists to him anymore. Nothing but the man in front of him and the task at hand.

Gates winds his fingers into the loose strands of hair at the back of Flint’s neck. He knows better than to pull out the queue. Flint likes to keep his hair out of his eyes: he doesn’t want anything to distract him, or impede his focus. On rare occasions, he will remove the queue himself and replace it with Gates’ hand, eager for him to take a firm hold of him and feed him his cock until his breath cuts off and tears stream down his face. Gates never quite understands why he prefers punishment to pleasure on those days, but he senses it would be rude not to oblige when Flint wants to be used like this.

This is not one of those times. After his next inhale, Flint spits into his fist to coat his dick with it, and then he wraps his lips around him. He takes Gates into his mouth with a sigh of relief, breath cool on spit-shining skin, sending another shiver through him. He sucks him once, twice, head bobbing, and then takes him down almost all the way. Gates’ cock pushes against the back of his throat in a sharp burst of pleasure, and he feels Flint’s throat working around him, his moans muffled by his dick.

Flint always sounds like a man starving who discovers nourishment after weeks without, except that Gates has never seen him so elated over a meal. The low noises are lost in the creaking of the ship, but Gates can _feel_ them, their vibrations against his cock, the small sighs mixing with the wet sounds of suction and spit. The feeling is heady, as are the cruel, calculated flicks of Flint’s tongue as it curls around him. It makes Gates want to roll his hips into the sensation—not so much that he puts Flint off his rhythm, but enough to satisfy his own physical urge to thrust. And Flint enjoys that, too, has let him fuck his mouth on occasion, holding his head very still, and he really is a sight when he lets Gates do exactly as he likes.

It should come as no surprise that Gates finds himself babbling incoherently sometimes, equal measures of praise and filth falling from his lips, but now—even though it all started with a story—now Gates is speechless. He’s lost more and more words over the years, becoming putty in Flint’s hands. And those same hands are now working him over, moving in tandem with soft mouth and tongue before Flint pulls off with a pop. A thin line of spit and precome connects them still, and Flint licks it up before sitting back to survey his handiwork. Satisfied, he dips down to pay closer attention to Gates’ balls.

Sometimes, at this point in the proceedings, Flint has asked Gates to turn around and brace himself against the nearest surface. The first time it happened, Gates was hesitant and on the verge of protest. Then Flint spread his arse apart with his hands, and his tongue brushed over him _there_ , and Gates let out a string of curses that would have made the most experienced sailor blush. He had found his release not too long after, spurting against the side of the desk while Flint continued to lick into him, his coarse facial hair rubbing a rough counterpoint into the insides of his cheeks.

He would have let Flint have him right there, that day, if Flint had asked, but he never did. Gates almost wants him to, wants to give him everything he can and for Flint to take everything from him in return. But there is a barrier of some sort, an invisible wall he doesn’t dare to scale. Whatever lies beyond it is carefully tucked away, protected from prying eyes in a dark, shadowy place, the sort of place where things like this between men happen. And yet he would, Gates thinks, even though Flint has never so much as pressed a finger into him, only rubbed that spot behind his balls until he saw stars.

It’s Flint’s experience that gets to him. All those things that other men must have taught him for him to know their bodies so well, all those spots that keep catching Gates by surprise. He tries to imagine Flint younger, like the sailors he knew in his youth, with auburn locks and a chest almost hairless but just as strong, spread out under some brute. Or no, he’d rather it was a lover instead, or a series of lovers, their tender touch making Flint gasp despite himself and memorize the forbidden pleasures offered up to him.

Flint’s hand twists around Gates’ cock, pulling him out of his reverie. He is back in the here and now, with a grown man licking a stripe up his length before swallowing it whole. Flint gives off a broken moan of appreciation when it pushes into his throat, his head bobbing up and down with the effort. Gates watches the way his dick disappears inside his mouth, the way Flint’s cheeks hollow. He likes how Flint becomes sloppy after a while, spit running down his chin and onto his shirt, sometimes even the floor, and how he flushes when Gates points it out, teasing him about what a mess he’s made of himself.

Further down, Flint’s hips hitch forward, seeking friction. Gates knows him well enough to know he’s hard enough to leak into his breeches. Every once in a while one of Flint’s hands dips down and brushes against the bulge in his trousers, needy and frustrated at the same time. But he soon gives up and focuses on Gates again, placing his hands on Gates’ hips, one at each side, and providing pleasure with his mouth only.

Gates feels the tension begin to build in his belly, and he wants to stay in this moment forever, teetering on the brink. Safe in the knowledge that it’s going to happen, that it’s within reach, so close but not overwhelming him just yet.

And then Flint pulls off, and he hisses against the loss.

Flint looks up at him. His face is flushed a vibrant red, his beard is drenched in spit and other fluids, and his lips are swollen crimson. This is the moment to state a preference, to say how he wants this to end, but again Gates finds himself emptied of all speech. His cock is throbbing under Flint’s touch, now routine, not stoking the fire of his arousal but keeping him burning at an even pace.

He’s found his release at Flint’s hands plenty of times, or brought himself off with his own, and Flint eager and receptive before him. He’s come into Flint’s hair and onto his face, but most often into his mouth. And although he enjoys the thought of Flint striding around the ship or drifting off to sleep with something of his left behind, a stark reminder, Gates likes his mouth the best: the intimacy of it, the trust needed to let go and to accept each other so completely.

So this is what he chooses now, wordlessly, and Flint understands him by the flick of his eyes and the nod to go on.

With his mouth back on him, the wet heat of it is overwhelming, the filthy tricks Flint can do with his tongue—it’s ruined Gates for anyone else, and not just their mouths. He’s ruined for cunt and arsehole alike, and he knows it. Gates is a practical man, he has tested it when they’re on land and Flint disappears elsewhere doing God knows what. Nothing quite compares to his captain’s devotion to cock, the way he will lose himself completely like he does now, sucking him with his eyes closed and an ever more feverish rhythm.

Gates feels himself grow larger as his orgasm draws near, feels Flint notice and moan at the stretch, urging him on. It’s like when they give chase to a bigger vessel: the inexorable approach, the dawning realization on the part of their prize that they would outpace them, the wind in their sails, the thrill of rushing forward, and the panic on the other crew’s faces, and then—

The blissful moment of surrender.

Gates thrusts deep, his cock pulsing. He’s already flooded Flint’s tongue with precome, now he unloads in hot bursts. And Flint swallows his prize and keeps swallowing, his mouth working around him and milking him dry. They stay like that until Gates pulls back, spent, all tension drained out.

Flint wipes his face, panting. He looks a mess, and despite the warm buzz in his veins Gates can’t help the feeling that he’s forgotten something, something important, something that he came here to do.

He has no idea what it was.

He feels nothing but the pleasant hum of release, slowly eclipsed by an aching tiredness seeping back into his bones. For a moment he eyes the leftover rum on the desk for pain relief, but he supposes he should get back to the men, now that his business here is concluded.

What business?

He’s sure it will come back to him.

While he’s tucking himself away and fixing his clothes, Flint touches himself quietly and efficiently. A few steady strokes and a bitten-back moan, and then he gets up, wiping his hand on a rag.

“You know what to do,” Flint says once his flush has subsided. His voice is rough from misuse, and Gates nods as if he does, in fact, know what it is they talked about.

It’s only when he returns to the main deck and he’s swarmed by the crew that he remembers. The men demand an explanation, but Gates wouldn’t be who he is if he couldn’t come up with something, if he couldn’t sell it to them the way he does so many other things, the way his job requires. He promises them perks for a job well done, and they demur, and if he notices how much he is like Flint right then, he pushes the thought aside.

Later, in a quiet moment, he’ll shake his head, feeling like a silly old man. A silly old man with an infatuation that’s going to end badly.

But then they’re off again, chasing their next prize, their next high; they are the terror of the high seas, and Gates wouldn’t trade this life for anything. He’ll keep at it for as long as he can, for as long as his tired old bones will let him, even though there’s one thing he knows for certain.

Flint would be the death of him.

**Author's Note:**

> james flint invented weaponized blowjobs, pass it on
> 
> (find me on [tumblr](https://riotsofbloom.tumblr.com/))


End file.
